You get pregnant, and you start to form all of these ideas about the way thing are going to be. If you're me, you form bucolic fantasies of lounging around the beach with your newborn, you (looking perfect in a bikini, already) reading a novel while he gurgles at the seagulls and enjoys tummy time under an adorable parasol. You also spend hours on the Internet, surfing all the design sites that make funky, aesthetically pleasing baby furniture, toys and clothing.
You know what I mean. Sites like http://modernseed.com/, where all the wood is from responsibly managed forests, the fabrics are handwoven by tribeswomen in South America, and all the colours are muted and fit into an adult-approved palette.
Well, my baby was born in January. By the time we make it to the beach, he'll be waaaay past tummy time and crawling around like a maniac, cramming putrid seaweed and rotten fish into his mouth. And yesterday, I bought him this:
Nary an ecologically responsible component in sight and I'm sure the closest it has ever gotten to a "tribeswoman" is a factory worker in some shitty Chinese city, but oh, does he ever love it. This makes me feel somewhat bad for how much I fought the idea of buying one.
When I saw him start reaching for the little monkey that hangs on his carseat, and the airplane that hangs in his wagon (he still thinks it's Satan's Wagon, but we're working on acclimating him), I realized he was probably ready for a baby gym, but I kept putting off buying one because really, they are monuments to ugly. Bright colours, annoying characters and sound effects that make you want to claw your ears off and puncture your eardrums. I knew that if we bought one, it would squat like a toad in my otherwise (I think, at least) aesthetically pleasing living room, and all my hopes for hanging onto some semblance of an adult-centric life would be gone.
I knew this because of the mountain of (very ugly) dog toys that live under the cabinet in the same living room. Things like cows with green spots, pink chickens with yellow fluff around their ropey necks, and long, orange plush dachshunds. We got one innocent little squeaky piggy for the dog six years ago, she loved it and was cute while playing with it, and now we're overrun. Who am I to think I'd have any better control over the ugly toys my kid likes?
"Check out my left hook, Mr Orange and Yellow Giraffe! Yeah, I'm lookin' at you."
So, here it is folks. The beginning of the end. Let the storm of plastic junk* begin. And you know what? If it buys me 15 min to sit down and stare at a wall, or makes Alexander do this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6YhN4Wyo8E
(I can't get this video to embed for some reason, so you'll have to go to youtube yourself) then it's A-okay by me!
My little hypnotist says: "You will buy me more plastic shit. Hie thee to a department store!"
* but maybe, just maybe, I can still have the adorable parasol from my daydream, to hide under while the plastic junk comes raining down?
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